


with bleeding inside the head there is a metallic taste at the back of the throat

by mutations



Series: house of m[etal] [1]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, FIx It, M/M, Reconciliation, also she has aou!wanda's powers, dofp replacement, erik tries to act responsibly, isn't it convenient the only people staying at the mansion are erik's kids, stoner!charles, teenage!lorna, wanda is a late bloomer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutations/pseuds/mutations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You are Magneto."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Erik tilts his head, considering. "I once went by that name. Does this bother you?"</i>
  <br/>
  <i>At that, Lorna laughs without humour, taking her toast and brushing past him.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"Nothing much bothers me anymore."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Erik's heart drops into his stomach and he forces himself to swallow around the lump in his throat.</i>
</p>
<p>9 years after the incident in Cuba, Erik is informed that he has a daughter staying at Xavier Mansion. Consequently, Erik attempts to deal with one house of rebellious teenagers, and one very stoned Professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with bleeding inside the head there is a metallic taste at the back of the throat

**Author's Note:**

> _You put the pill inside the petal_   
>  _You put the petal in your mouth_   
>  _You put your love inside the metal_   
>  _You build the metal for your house_   
>  _And the night runs wild_

**i**  
The first time Erik hears Charles' voice again is nine years after the incident in Cuba. He had just gotten back to his apartment in the city, clothes drenched from the rain and clutching an off-brand coffee in his hand when his phone rings. Before he even picks it up, before he even hears _I'm sorry my friend, I know you must not want to speak to me_ , he knows it's him, but answers anyways, only to immediately slam the phone back on the reciever. His heart races at the nerve Charles must have to think Erik would possibly want anything to do with him, but also at the fact that his posh accent seemed a bit duller than he remembered, laced with a sadness and something else he couldn't name.

He stares at the phone for some moments afterward, daring it to ring again, and feeling somehow angrier when it doesn't.

...

The next time, Charles contacts him by letter. He holds the paper in his hands a long time, shaking slightly, but places it on his nightstand instead of ripping it open and reading the contents. Glancing at the envelope becomes a nightly habit, sometimes picking it up and examining Charles' neat handwriting, each time becoming more tempted to oblige his old friend and open it until he notes the cold and informal way Charles addressed him, _Mr. Lehnsherr_ , and then he crams it in between his alarm clock and lamp.

...

The third time Charles sends yet another letter, but this time Erik can feel the outline of a thick polaroid in the envelope. He spends the next week contemplating what on earth Charles could feel the need to take a picture of and send to him, before coming to the realization that maybe he is sending back all traces of Erik, pictures and all, purging himself of his betrayal and any stray hope that maybe Erik would come to his senses and run back into Charles' arms, pleading to _take him back, he has seen the light, you were right all along_ , and the very thought sends Eriks' blood running cold.

Not that he hasn't considered doing just that, many, many times.

Yet another week is spent just holding the letter, running his fingers over Charles' handwriting, noting the way that this time his words are written a bit more squarely and boldly, and he can imagine Charles hunkered over, red lips set in a straight line and his brow furrowed, yelling at Erik long-distance through penmanship. The thought causes him to chuckle, because yes, that sounds exactly like something the Oxford graduate would do. He wonders idly if he is still a Professor, and if maybe the picture is a class picture, a small line of proud little mutants standing beside a tweed-clad Charles, with the scribbled inscription reading _I have a teaching position open_ , and Erik curses himself for taking a moment to think about whether he would say yes or not.

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him, and he rips the envelope open and pulls out the polaroid, tossing the letter out on the bed in front of him where he is sitting. What he sees is the last thing he expected- a young girl, perhaps 16, with a shock of green hair that sits right below her waist, wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt with an outstretched hand and a look of concentration that mirrors his own. He squints his eyes at the picture, trying to make out what she is looking at, when he realizes the object floating in front of her is a small metal barbell, maybe 10lbs. At this, Erik's jaw falls open, and he glances down at the caption, _Lorna Sally Dane_ , and suddenly the significance of this picture hits him, oh god, and he is panicking, running hands through thick hair, until finally he finds the resolve to pack a suitcase, not even bothering to read the content of Charles' letter, because he has a daughter- _Lorna, she is named Lorna_ \- and she can control metal.

ii

The sight he is met with is not what he anticipated. In his head, visions of school children danced in his head, eager to learn about their powers and absorb Charles's pacifist teachings. But no, the mansion he sees now, as Hank- _was that his name?_ \- leads him through the foyer and into the Professors' office, is bare. Bookshelves and tables are completely littered with empty bottles and open books with a thick layer of dust coating them, magazines left scattered, and the air is heavy with the smell of marijuana, and he can't believe the Charles he once knew is subjecting his child to this.

...

This man is a stranger to him. This is another being, a shell of the endearingly arrogant man he loved. No, that Charles has been replaced with a hedonistic, lazy, mutinous stoner. At first sight, Erik feels a light in his chest, _he's walking, I didn't paralyze him after all,_ until Hank informs him of the serum that gives him his legs but takes away his telepathy- a part of his identity. It is proof of how much Erik has improved in the self-control department that he does not throttle the idiot before him, so far removed from consciousness that his eyes- startlingly blue eyes he has spent nights swimming in - cannot focus on his face. With a curse Erik resigns to a spare room, not really a spare, per se, as most of the rooms in Westchester are now empty with the lack of students, and are scented with loneliness and neglect.

That night, Erik gets no rest, his mind plagued with black nightmares, and the image of Charles, shoulder-length stringy waves framing his face, putting a needle in his arm and killing the telepath Erik held so dear.

...

The next morning he is acquainted with Wanda and Pietro, a pair of twins who look nothing alike but act as if they share the same mind. He learns that they came here two years ago seeking help the Great and powerful Charles Xaver, only to be sorely disappointed by being given only free room and board instead of the guidance they so sorely needed.

This burns Erik.

Pietro, he quickly finds, is a speedster, so fast Erik wonders at first if he is a teleporter. Blessed with endless energy, he is never in one place long enough for Erik to get a good look at him, knowing only that he is built tall and lanky with a thick wave of chin-length silver hair. Wanda however, Erik cannot bare to even look at- _we don't for sure if she is human, she could be a late-bloomer, but pietro refuses to be separated from her._ So he ignores the curious way her cheekbones and auburn curls that shine red in the light remind him of a certain young girl he once knew, and the way Pietro is hopelessly devoted to her despite her obvious inferiority as homo-sapien.

...

It is three long days before Lorna arrives back at the mansion. She comes and goes, apparently, and Erik wouldn't have known of her presence except that Pietro whizzed into the libray where Erik was reading, spouting nonsense too fast for him to understand, before commenting offhandedly- _oh, that girl you wanted, in the kitchen._

He finds her leaning against the counter, holding a piece of toast in one hand while a knife floats in the air above it and spreads jelly across the surface. Her green eyebrows are pushed together, and it is obvious to Erik how much effort it takes for Lorna to so finely control the tool.

"It is an extension of yourself, metal is," Erik calls to her.

Her head jerks up and the knife falls as her concentration is broken. A wrinkled white t-shirt two sizes too large hangs from her narrow frame, and her tortoise-shell thick-rimmed glasses only serve to emphasize her long lashes. She watches intently, eyes narrowing as Erik raises the knife she dropped without even breaking eye contact, placing it into its rightful place back in the kitchen sink. Her jaw sets- a strong jaw, like his -and she raises her head indignantly, eyes sparkling with recognition.

"You are Magneto."

Erik tilts his head, considering. "I once went by that name. Does this bother you?"

At that, she laughs without humour, taking her toast and brushing past him.

"Nothing much bothers me anymore."

Erik's heart drops into his stomach and he forces himself to swallow around the lump in his throat.

...

It has been approximately thirty minutes, the longest half-hour of his life, that Erik has been shouting at Charles. The once-proud Professor is shaking violently, his rage almost palpable, but yet Erik has yet to see but a glimpse of the man he knew.

"You allow a human into a school for mutants-"

"First off, this is not a school, the twins don't get in the way, I am just providing a place for them to stay. We don't know she isn't mutant anywa-"

"And Lorna?" he interjects, "My daughter? You don't even have the decency to provide her with an educ-"

Charles leans forward on his desk, his voice gone dangerously low. "You'd be surprised to see what she has survived without you, Erik. All her life, without you. It is your duty to make that up now, not me. That is not on me. "

Erik's lip curls and his stomach turns, and for a moment he is glad Charles cannot read his mind, for he'd never live it down if Charles knew the guilt rotting heavy in his gut.

iii

He meanders around the house a bit, wondering at it's emptiness and recalling that he has never seen it look so, not even the first time he was staying here in 1962. No, the first time he was here, he was with friends, and Charles-

Erik shakes his head before allowing his mind to go down that path. Telepath or not, he won't give Charles the pleasure of knowing he reminisces for better times.

The halls are long and winding, the grandeur he once marveled at hidden beneath lived-in trash, trash he suspects from both its current occupents and the students that left not too long ago. The sunlight is shining through the windows, highlighting particles of dust floating in the air above him. He stops in front of the room that belonged to Mysti- Raven those few weeks. Curious, he pushes the door open using the metal doorknob, and peers inside to find that it is clean. Oh. He didn't know what he expected, the building had been a school.

Finally he circles back to the living room- well, the one closest to his room.

"Maaaaaaagneto. Sounds like magnet."

Lorna is sitting in front of the couch on the floor, knees pressed to her chest and hair in a tossled braid. She is wagging a long finger at him, "You are a clever one."

Erik frowns, eyes flipping between her and the TV- which is off.

"Are you just...sitting here?"

"Nope."

"O-kay, than you are..."

"Thinking." She taps her forehead meaningly, and Erik winces at the familiar gesture. A surge of panic rises in him at the prospect of talking with his daughter, and for a moment he can hear his heartbeat in his ears before he wills the emotions down, featuring nothing but calm as he makes his way to the rocker opposite Lorna.

Sighing as he sits, Erik props long legs onto the coffee table, and searches within himself for the right thing to say-

_-you're my daughter, you're so beautiful i've missed so much-_

_-when did you manifest? was it painful? did you kill anyone, like i did?-_

_-do you ever fancy yourself a god? because we could rule together, father and daughter-_

He is about to settle for the safe option of _how long are you staying_ when he hears her hiccup. A small sound, really, but not enough so to go unnoticed."Do you need water?"

"Nah, I got plenty of liquids right here," she says grinning, and then pulls out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, sloshing it around a bit before tipping some in her mouth, and it is all he can do but stare before he registers what is happening. His daughter, his teenage daughter, is getting herself sloppy drunk.

"Yo- You...that is...where did you get that?" He is shaking her- _when did i even get up_ \- and she is staring at him with big golden eyes, until he yanks the bottle from her fingers and holds in front of her face.

"I will ask again, Lorna. Where. Did. You. Get. This."

Her eyes shine brighter, and she shakes her head, her shoulder rising and falling. "Why does it matter?" Erik's heart clenches at the look of defeat on her face.

"Why does it ma- are you _serious_? You could have alcohol poisoning, you could seriously hurt yourself, my god Lorna, still not in full control of your power, how...how old are you even?"

It's a moment before she replies, "Seventeen."

His upper lip curls and he smashes the bottle against the coffee table, ignoring her frightened screams and turning back to her still gripping the neck. She is cowered down, arms wrapped around her head and shaking along with all the metal in the room, and he doesn't know who is doing it, him or Lorna.

Without even offering a consoling word, he steps over the pieces of broken glass and goes to find Charles.  
...

"You did this. This is on you. If you would just take responsibility for your actions, start acting like a Professor-"

"But I'm not a Professor anymore, _Erik_." Charles' hands are gripping the edge of his desk, knuckles turning white. "And this isn't a school anymore. This is a refuge. Hank stays with me, Pietro and Wanda are living here until they can figure their lives out, and Lorna...she needs stability."

He is shaking his head, "You think they come here for stability? They came because they needed to learn to control their powers, they need an education, all the things you promised when you made this school! Instead, you're here, wasting away on," he picks up an empty bottle of scotch, "this shit, and turning your back on mutants who need what you have to offer."

"I don't have anything left to offer, Erik! Can't you see that?" There are tears welling in his eyes, and Erik knows he hit a sensitive spot. "All my teachers are gone to fight, some alongside the older students! " He scrambles madly in his desk, finding a syringe filled with yellow liquid and shoving it in Erik's face, hands shaking violently. "This is all that stands between sanity, and hearing all the nightmares, every discerning thought, fantasy, disappointment," his voice tapers off, and the tears are flowing freely. Erik resists the urge to reach out and wipe away the moisture. "Don't you see?" His voice has gone shaky, small and weak. "I have nothing else to offer. All I can give them now is a roof over their heads."

Erik stumbles into the chair opposite Charles, resting his head in his hands. "And what of the alcohol, old friend?" He says the last two words bitterly. "Of the other drugs? All this shit, that you leave laying around, that my daughter is now abusing, who _knows_ how long that has been going on-"

He pauses, his heart stopping at Charles' expression. He is gaping at the doorway, features writ with guilt and regret.

"Daughter?"

Slowly, Erik turns in his seat, to see Lorna leaning heavily against the doorframe, blanching.

A thousand emotions bubble up to the surface, pulse quickening and thoughts swimming as he waits for a reaction. The whole world has stopped right now, he is convinced, for this moment. He waits for her to curse him, turn her back on him, run away, scream, anything but this deafening silence.

"That's why you're here, isn't it? For me?"

"Yes," he says shakily.

She nods. "Are you gonna take me 'way? I kinda like it here, with Chuck and all." He can sense Charles flinching beside him, but he can't tell whether it is from the nickname, or how heavily Lorna is slurring her words. He risks a sideways glance, _my god_ , it really has been ten years, but he is still so beautiful.

Turning back to Lorna, Erik falters. "I won't take you anywhere you don't want to go. We can...stay here, provided we have permission."

Lorna looks past his shoulder to Charles, and seems to be satisfied with what she finds there.

"Fine. But you're training me."

...

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics at the beginning are from Chelsea Wolfe's song House of Metal.


End file.
